Have You Broken It?

Every mountain biker (at least the ones I've known) has done something the oppressed people of this world strive, and sometimes manage, to do.  What is it?

Break their chains.

All right, that's worse than a dad or prof joke. And if any of you are oppressed, or descendants of people who were, and are offended by the joke, I apologize.

OK, so here's a difference between mountain bikers and at least one oppressed group of people.  Of the latter, Karl Marx said that if they united, they had nothing to lose but their chains.  On the other hand, I don't know of any cyclist who wants to lose their chain.  For those in bondage, getting rid of chains is the first step, so to speak, of mobility.  In contrast, a bike without a chain goes nowhere.

During my first two years of mountain biking, I broke or wore out more chains and sprockets than I did in two decades or so of road riding.  Bombing down trails, hopping over rocks and skipping over small streams definitely was harder on drivetrain components, and bikes in general, than "hammering" on pavement, even if both kinds of riding exerted my body in more or less the same ways--though I don't think I got cut, bruised or banged up on the road unless I crashed, which I didn't do often.

As hard as off-road riding was on my equipment, I never broke or even significantly damaged a frame.  Then again, I rode only steel frames. (The Cannondale mountain bike I bought a few years ago, and gave to an emergency room doctor early in the pandemic, never saw dirt, mud or rocks while I rode it.) Some, including, perhaps my younger self, might say I wasn't riding hard enough.

What got me to thinking about my experiences with mountain bike equipment?  I came across a survey Jeff Barber posted on the Singletracks blog. He asks, "Have you ever broken a mountain bike frame?"  Not surprisingly, some readers responded with their stories.  

Image from Ruckus Composites

So now I'm wondering:  Are mountain bikers--or BMXers or other riders who make their bikes hop, jump and absorb all manner of impact--more or less likely to break their frames than other riders?  And do they still, as I did, find that their drivetrain components don't last as long as those of road bikes?

A Legend Remains Off-Limits

 The exact place and moment mountain biking was “born” has been debated. What hasn’t been disputed, however, is that it evolved from a few young people (their inhibitions possibly loosened by an herb, if you know what I mean) bombing down fire trails and rocky paths in Northern California and Upper New England (where cyclo-cross enjoyed some popularity) on old Schwinn ballon-tired bikes they bought for a couple of dollars in thrift stores or found in the rubbish.  Depending on whom you ask, that would have been in the early 1970s, or possibly even the 1960s.

Of course, it wasn’t called “mountain biking” or “off-road riding” until much later—after folks like Gary Fisher started to modify those bikes with derailleurs and cantilever brakes (coaster brakes on those old bikes burned out during long, steep descents) and Joe Breeze made bikes specifically for the purpose.

Another agreed-upon part of mountain bike lore:  One of its shrines, so to speak, is Mount Tamalpais, which offers stunning views of San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge and the Pacific Ocean. In fact, “Mount Tam” is so iconic—in a way that l’Alpe d’Huez is in road bike racing—that bicycles, parts, accessories and clothing have been named for it.

Mountain bikers before it was “mountain biking “ on Mount Tamalpais during the 1970s.  Photo by Wende Cragg.

There are, however, some major differences between the two peaks. For one, the summit of Huez, in the French Alps, is about three times as high as “Tam.” And the views, while stunning, are entirely different. 

Also, there is a paved road with 21 virages, which is open to cyclists except, of course, when the race is approaching. (I climbed it in 2001, just before a ride up another iconic Tour de France climb would change my life. Tamalpais, on the other hand, is accessible only by trails—which have been off-limits to cyclists for about four decades.

In October, local cyclists thought they’d won “their” mountain back after the ban was lifted.  Or so they thought.

Photo by Maureen Gaffney for Outside magazine.

Just when they were ready to take a celebratory ride on the trails, a judge issued a restraining order. Turns out, several groups and the water safety commission lobbied against the opening. They cited concerns about dangers to plant and animal life—which includes rare species—and the water supply.  

Those concerns have been the basis of other bans, mainly in National and State parks.  Opening “Tam” would have involved only two trails: one for conventional mountain bikes, the other for electric mountain bikes.  I can’t help but to think the latter may have been a reason for the lobbying and the judge’s ruling:  They believe (perhaps rightly) that noise and vibrations from eBikes (which didn’t exist 40 years ago) will disturb wildlife.

It will be interesting, to say the least, to see whether Otis Guy, now 71 years old and part of the protest against the judge’s order, will ever be able to ride again on the mountain he, Gary Fisher, Joe Breeze and others made into a shrine of their beloved sport half a century ago.

Would You Live On A Street That's A Singletrack?

 Some neighborhoods' and towns' street names have themes.  For example, when I pedal to Point Lookout, after traversing the Atlantic Beach Bridge, I cross a series of streets named for New York State counties.  Other communities have streets named after flowers or trees--or the children of the developers.  Then there are the "gem" streets of "The Hole."

Well, in Colorado there's a town called Fruita.  You might expect the streets to be named after strawberries or blueberries or cherries or other delectables.  But, being near Grand Junction, it's adjacent to some of the most renowned mountain biking in the world.  So, the builders of a new development paid homage--by building their new homes on Singletrack Street, Pivot Street and Yeti Street.  

Photo by Mattias Fredericksson

Executives of Yeti and Pivot bicycles deny that they had anything to do with naming the streets, but are nonetheless delighted.  It's "better than a star on Hollywood Boulevard," said Chris Conroy, the president of Yeti, which is based in nearby Golden.  Chris Cocalis, the CEO of Pivot, called the naming "a complete and awesome surprise."  

The town sounds like a nice place to go if you get tired of city life.  But I have to ask:  If the developers refused to sell their houses to road bikers, would that be a violation of Federal fair housing regulations?

A Chopper Or A Riser?

When I was mountain biking, bikes were often equipped with quick-release seat post clamps.  This allowed seat height changes for different parts of the ride.  On a technical section, you might  lower your saddle.  Then you could raise it when riding a flat, straight section of a trail.

Now, I admit that I didn't change my saddle height very often--or, at least, not as often as I was led to believe I would.  Still, I didn't mind having the quick release on my seatpost clamp.  I just had to remember to remove my seat and post when I parked my bike on the street.

I guess some people feel they need easily variable seat heights on all of their rides--even their commutes.  At least, that's what this rider seems to like:

They Didn't Come As A Shock Then...

Writing recently about "path racers" and the mountain bike experiences of my youth got me to thinking of just what it means to be a "mountain" or "path" rider--and what makes bikes suitable for those kinds of riding.

I also got to thinking about how and when those kinds of riding came to be seen as distinctive from other kinds of riding, and how the terms to describe them came to be.

It seems to me that those kinds of cycling and bikes--as well as cyclo-cross and bicycle motocross (BMX) evolved as specialties within cycling because of paved roads. 

Think about it:  In the early days of cycling, there were few paved roads.  And the few paved roads had gravel, cobblestone or granite sett (a.k.a. Belgian Block) surfaces. Thus, most of the time, cyclists were riding under conditions that, today, we would equate with off-road or cyclo-cross--or what the Brits would call "rough stuff".

If you are a mountain or cyclo-cross rider, try to think of what your rides would be like with solid rubber tires--or no tires at all. In other words, think  of what it would be like to ride your favorite trail on bare wood or metal rims. That is, I believe, what normal riding conditions would have been like for most cyclists before the pneumatic tire was invented in the late 1880's.

And to think cyclists rode, not only without the cushioning of air-filled tires, but on front wheels that were almost as tall as the riders themselves!

So, really, it's not surprising that there were attempts to incorporate suspension into bicycles. 

This Blackledge bicycle, patented in 1890, uses a spring in the fork assembly to soften the blows from the rough roads of the day.  It seems that ever since the "safety" bicycle (two wheels of more or less equal size) was invented, attempts to incorporate suspension into bicycles began with the front fork.  For one thing, we feel road shock first at the front.  For another, shock to the front is more likely to upset our balance or momentum--and cause crashes-- than shock at the rear.

This Tillinghast bicycle, patented the following year, has another interesting front suspension system as well as a unique kickstand built into the pedals:

Still, attempts to soften the ride--and make the bike more stable on rough surfaces--weren't limited to tinkering with the front end.  Here is a drawing submitted by Fernand Clement for the suspension bike he patented in 1892:

Here is another early rear suspension system on a J.H. Mathews bicycle, patented in 1891:

Hmm...Wouldn't it be fun to envision Messrs. Blackledge, Tillinghast, Clement and Mathews showing up at Tamalpais a century after they created these bikes...but just before Rock Shox, Marzocchi, Manitou came along?

Hey Dude! Catch This Wave!

For a few years, I did a pretty fair amount of mountain biking.  I even had two "crews" I rode with.  In one of them, I was the only white, non-Caribbean rider; in the other I was the oldest.  We rode, went out to eat, went to movies and engaged in all sorts of ribaldry.   And we talked a lot of trash--to and about each other and everyone else in the world, it seemed--all in good fun, of course.

I have never surfed, but somehow this milieu reminded me of what I always imagine "boarders" enjoyed with each other.  We had a kind of high-octane testosterone-fueled camaraderie and egged each other on in making fast turns and drops and, on occasion, chatting up women.  (Oh, if they could see me now..;-)).  Much of the slang we, and other mountain bikers, used at that time was that of surfers.  Someone who took a tumble "wiped out", tough terrain was "gnarly" and anything particularly pleasurable or exhilarating was "bitchin'! and could leave us "stoked".

Oh, yeah, and the way we, and other mountain bikers used the word "dude".  Yes, it was a slang term for anyone male, but it was also used as an all-purpose rhetorical exclamation. "Du-u--de!" Lots of riders would yell it when bombing down a steep drop. 

It all made sense to me when I realized that in some ways, mountain biking--especially the downhill variety--has a similar thrill, a kind of adrenaline rush, that "riding the waves" does.  Even cross-country riding has some of that feel:  When you ride fast through turns and over rocks, creeks and such, after a certain point, it's not about how hard or fast you're pedaling; you stay on your bike and move forward to the degree that you can ride the "waves" of whatever terrain your tire treads roll over.

So, I guess, it does make sense that someone actually created this:




From Charlie Kelly's website

"Soon to Revolutionize Self Propelled (sic) Recreational Vehicles"?  It must really be revolutionary if the rider doesn't need a helmet or other protective equipment!

Michelle Dumaresq: 100% Pure Woman Champ

Today is Transgender Day of Remembrance.  

This day was first observed in 1999, one year after Rita Hester was murdered in her Allston, Massachusetts apartment.  She was killed just two days before she would have turned 35 years old.


Her death came just a few weeks after Matthew Shepard was beaten and left to die on a cold night in the Wyoming high desert.  Their deaths helped to bring about the hate-crime laws now on the books in the US as well as many state and local statutes.  Moreover, Hester's killing--while not as widely publicized as Shepard's--galvanized transgender activists all over the world.

Because I am--at least to my knowledge--the only transsexual woman with a bike blog, I am going to use this post to honor one of the greatest transgender athletes of our era.

Michelle Dumaresq was born in 1970.  In 2001, she entered and won her first competitive mountain biking event--the Bear Mountain Race in British Columbia, Canada.  After she won two more races, her racing license was suspended in response to complaints from other female riders.  The cycling associations of British Columbia and Canada, after meeting privately with race organizers, tried to pressure her into quitting.  Of course, she wouldn't, and after a meeting with UCI officials, it was decided that she could continue to compete as a female.

Other female riders felt she had an unfair advantage.  Their resentment was, not surprisingly, based on a common misunderstanding.  Dumaresq had her gender reassignment surgery in 1996, five years before her first victory, and had been taking female hormones--and a male hormone blocker--for several years before that.  By the time she started racing, she no longer had any testosterone in her body (Biological females have traces of it.) and she had lost most of the muscle mass she had as a man.

I know exactly where she's been, as I also had the surgery after six years of taking hormones and a testosterone blocker.  A few months into my regimen, I started to notice a loss of overall strength, and I noticed some more after my surgery.  Trust me, Ms. Dumaresq, as talented and dedicated as she is, had no physiological advantage over her female competitors.

I remind myself of that whenever another female rider (usually, one younger than I am) passes me during my ride to work!

But I digress.  Michelle Dumaresq had the sort of career that would do any cyclist--male or female, trans or cisgender, or gay--proud.  She won the Canadian National Championships four times and represented her country in the World Championships.  That, of course, made the haters turn up the heat.  When she won the 2006 Canadian National Championships, the boyfriend of second-place finisher Danika Schroeter jumped onto the podium and helped her put on a T-shirt that read "100% Pure Woman Champ."

Ms. Dumaresq would have looked just fine in it.

Origins

After writing about Missy Giove, I got to thinking about how bicycle racers come to be.  

When "The Missile" was flying down mountainsides, downhill racing was a new genre of mountain biking. Before that time--the early-to-mid '90's-- nearly all of the prominent mounatain bikers started off as road racers.  However, she was one of the first mountain bikers who didn't have a significant background on the road. Later in the decade, there would be a "critical mass" of mountain bike racers who spent all or most of their amateur and professional careers as mountain bikers without spending significant time on the road or track. 

Interestingly, by the end of that decade, American dominance of mountain biking would end.  While riders from the US still won more than their share of victories, the best young talent in the sport was coming from Europe--first from France, then from Switzerland, Germany, Italy, Austria and a few other countries.  

One would have thought that the riders from the other side of the Atlantic--where racing culture was, and still is, deeper than it is in the New World-- would have been, if anything, road or track racers before becoming mountain bikers.  And indeed some were.  But those new riders from the Alps, Pyrenees and other mountain areas of Europe also had roots in another sport that is more prominent over there than it is here:  downhill ski racing.  

It makes sense, at least to me:  My own (admittedly limited) experience with both has shown me that downhillers, whether they're on skis or wheels, have to have similar reflexes and moves.  Plus, if you're living in a mountainous area, you simply have more opportunities to do either sport, let alone both.

Now, to a completely different area of cycling: the triathlon.  Of course, it's not strictly a cycling event:  it also involves running and swimming.  Still, one might expect that a large percentage of triathloners to come from the world of bicycle racing.  


I am sure that many do, although I have seen no research to corroborate that. However, from my own admittedly-informal observations, and from knowing several triathloners, I get the impression that most triathloners start off--and identify themselves primarily--as runners. And not many seem to be mainly swimmers 

Promo for mini-triathlon in Marysville, MO, 2012

If what I've seen is indicative of the wider world, I can think of one reason why triathloners might be runners first and foremost .  Of the three triathlon events, running is hardest on the knees and other body parts.  If someone's joints and limbs can stand up to the pounding or jarring that results from hitting the pavement, they can certainly handle cycling and swimming.  Conversely, while swimming is a very intensive physical activity, it places very little stress on the knees. 

So...If some of the best downhill racers were skiers before taking up mountain biking, and the majority of triathloners start off as runners, what were the first bike racers doing before they started spinning their pedals?

Can You Top This?

For a few years, I was a fairly dedicated mountain biker.  I still preferred road biking, on the whole, but I used to enjoy going riding over rocks and through creeks, especially when accompanied by a "crew".

But I never did anything like the ride Danny Macaskill does in his native Isle of Skye, Scotland:

Old Glory, The Union Jack Or Le Bleu, Blanc Et Rouge

Three years ago, I wrote about red, white and blue bicycles--and someone who had a red, a white and a blue Cannondale.

Now I'm going to show you some red-white-and-blue (or bleu, blanc et rouge) components and accessories. 

Ironically, one of greatest pieces of Americana kitsch--in bicycle components, anyway--was made in France:

When SRAM took over Sachs--which, in turn, had swallowed up some French component manufacturers such as Huret, Maillard and Sedis--they continued to manufacture components in the old French plants for a few years before moving their production to Taiwan (except for the chains, which are made in Portugal).

In a way, it makes sense that the "Betsy" derailleur appeared when it did , circa 1997.  That's when the craze for mountain bike parts anodized in a rainbow of colors hit its peak.  In some ways, it was a reaction against the gray uniformity (literal as well as metaphorical) of what Shimano was producing at the time.  Yes, their stuff worked fine (except for the early Rapid Fire shifters).  But a bike equipped with them had all the personality of, well, a Gateway computer with Windows 98 (which, I admit, I used for nearly a decade).  

Another offspring of that craze was the Paul Powerglide derailleur:

In addition to the red-white(well, silver)-and-blue combination shown here, it was also available in a "rasta" finish as well as purple, green, blue, red and other standard anodized colors. Whatever you chose--even plain silver or black (Now why would you do that if you were spending $280 on a derailleur?) your derailleur was emblazoned with the stars and stripes.

Here's another tricolore derailleur from around the same time:

Although branded "Stronglight", it was most likely made in the same factory as "Betsy" in the first photo.  Also, once the colors and badges are removed, it's pretty much identical to a Sachs "Success" or "Quartz" from that period.

Now here's a tricolore acessory that gets me misty-eyed:

This Zefal "Competition" pump is the predecessor of the HP series.  In fact, if you take away the thumb-lock valve fitting and the handle that switches between "HP" 9for pumping" and "X" (to mount it on your bike), you have a "Comoetition",

I used a "Competition" for years, on several bikes.  I had a SIlca Impero, which was about 60 grams lighter, for my racing bike, but for every other kind of riding, I used my Competition.  It worked better and was more durable than the Silca, and its color scheme reminded me about "liberte, egalite et fraternite."  Why I wanted to be reminded of those things, I don't know, but I don't think I'm any the worse for being reminded of them.

I'm sure there have been other components and accessories in red, white and blue or bleu, blanc et rouge.  Now all we need are bike parts that play "The Star Spangled Banner" or
 "La Marseillaise" (or, perhaps, "God Save The Queen") when you need a boost of energy.

Happy Fourth Of July.  Wish me a happy birthday.  (Yes, it's today!)

 

A Parts-Bin Bike That Changed The World

The Trek I recently sold was a "parts bin bike."  That is to say, most of the components I hung on the frame were ones I had lying around after being stripped from other bikes--or acquired in swaps, or given to me.  

Practically every bike mechanic has put together at least one such bike for him or her self, and possibly for someone else.  Sometimes I think a true bike mechanic will not ride any other kind of bike.

Every once in a while, a "parts bin bike" gains some sort of significance beyond its maker's life.  Such was the case of this machine:

In the immortal words of Tom Cuthbertson, if you had a grand of cash and dreams of riding the Appalachian Trail on a bicycle, you went to Joe Breeze and he built you a bike like this one.

I have always liked the look of it:  an apparent cross between a diamond and French mixte frame.  (In fact, his first bikes were usually equipped with mixte bars.)  There was a reason for this design:  When Breeze, Gary Fisher and others who have claimed (or have had others claim for them) the title of the Inventor of the Mountain Bike were barreling down Marin and Sonoma County fire trails, their frames broke with alarming regularity.  The short life-spans of their bikes had to do with the abuse they incurred, to be sure. However, those pioneer mountain bikers were using bikes they picked up in thrift shops and garage and yard sales.  Some were not terribly strong bikes to begin with, but others were old bikes that probably had hairline cracks and other damage when the Downhill Dudes bought them.  Also, the old Schwinn and Columbia cruisers--which, in those days (late 1960's-mid 1970's) could be found for as little as $2--were made of mild steel.  That is why they were so heavy:  A lot of metal was used to make up for its lack of strength.

Back to Breeze's bike:  The frame was built from tubes and other pieces from wildly differing kinds of bicycles.  For example, take a look at the dropouts, fork, cranksets and brakes:

 

A mountain bike with track dropouts?  Or a fork from a newsboy-style bike of the 1950's?  How about a crankset and brakes from a tandem or touring bike?

When Joe Breeze built that bike nearly four decades ago, there were, of course, no mountain bike-specific parts.  The TA Cyclotouriste was one of the few cranksets available that could handle the kind of gearing needed.  And the Mafac cantilevers were, by far, the strongest brakes available at that time.  As primitive as those parts may seem to some people today, they were the best Breeze could find for his purposes.

I have to admit that I get a kick out of seeing a Brooks B-72 (which was standard equipment on many English three-speed bikes) on Breeze's rig.  What mountain biker rides such a seat today?

Whether or not Joe Breeze "invented" the mountain bikes, many agree that the bike pictured was the first to be built specifically for the nascent sport of mountain biking.  If nothing else, it's a parts bin bike (sort of, anyway) that changed the world.

Taming The Bicycle

From High Wheel Bicycle

On my bicycle, I've raced, toured, commuted and delivered pizzas, books, payroll checks, blueprints, contracts, machine parts and a few packages with "don't ask don't tell" policies, if you know what I mean.


I've thumped along potholed city streets, rumbled down rocky hills, rolled along county roads and routes departmantles past fields, castles, cathedrals and through forests and villages. I've woven my way through pacelines and drafted riders I would pass and others who would ride in races, and in places, I have never seen.   I've cycled over ice and through fire.  (I'm not making that up!)  I've ridden alone, with friends, with lovers and after breakups.  And I've pedalled away from a person or two.

On the other hand, I've never done BMX, bicycle polo or paintball on bicycles.  And I've never ridden a high-wheeler, although I sometimes think I'd like to.  After all, my cycling ancestors did so.  They include Auguste Rodin, H.G. Wells and Mark Twain, who wrote an incomparable account of the experience.  


He tamed his bike the way he tamed just about everything else: with his wit and irony.  Really, I don't see how a cyclist can not develop at least a little bit of either quality.